THE SENSE OF HUMOUR AND CUNNING IN DOGS.

DOGS' SENSE OF HUMOUR.

THE POWER OF IMITATION IN DOGS.

[Oct. 22, 1882.]

The following anecdote may interest those of your readers who are accustomed to observe the characteristic actions of dogs. I can vouch for its accuracy, as I was an amused eye-witness, and several members of my family were also present, and have often told the story.

A friend of ours and his wife were spending a musical evening with us, and an old, black, English terrier, who belonged to the house, had been in the drawing-room, which was upstairs. The dog had been kindly noticed by our friend, who was partially lame from paralysis. On leaving the drawing-room the dog followed him to the top of the staircase (we, with his wife, were waiting below in the hall), and with cocked tail and ears stood gravely watching his slow, limping descent. When the invalid was nearly at the foot of the stairs the dog began to follow, limping on three legs (he was quite sound), in humorous imitation of our poor, afflicted friend, and this assumed lameness was gravely kept up till he arrived on the mat. It was impossible to repress a smile, though our politeness was at stake, and the unconsciousness of our friend added to the difficulty.

A. R.

SENSE OF HUMOUR IN DOGS.

[July 28, 1888.]

A recent anecdote from one of your correspondents about a dog and a hen brought to my mind an incident, related to me by an eye-witness, of a dog who had a constant feud with the fowls, which were prone to pilfer from the basin containing his dinner. On one occasion he was lying in front of his kennel, quietly watching a hen as she made stealthy and tentative approaches to his basin, which at length she reached and looked into, finding it perfectly empty. The dog wagged his tail.

J. R.

A DOG'S SENSE OF HUMOUR.

[March 9, 1895.]

Does the following dog-story show a sense of humour? A retriever was in the habit of leaving his bed in the kitchen when he heard his master descending the stairs in the morning. On one occasion a new kitchen-maid turned him out of his bed at a much earlier hour than usual. He looked angrily at her, but walked out quietly. Time passed, and he was nowhere to be found. At last, in going to her bedroom, the kitchen-maid found him coiled up in her own bed.

B. B.

CUNNING DOGS.

A DOG AND A WHIP.

[May 18, 1889.]

You have lately published several dog stories. Allow me to send you another for publication should you think it worthy. It was told me to-day by a lady whom I cross-examined to get full details:—"Some twenty years back we had a poodle—white, with one black ear. After the manner of his race, he was never quite happy unless he carried something in his mouth. He was intelligent and teachable to the last degree. The great defect in his character was the impossibility of distinguishing meum from tuum. Anything he could get hold of he seemed to think, according to his dogged ethics, to be fairly his own. On one occasion he entered the room of one of the maidservants and stole her loaf of bread, carefully shutting the door after him with his feet—the latter part being a feat I had taught him. The woman—Irish—was scared, and thought that the dog was the devil incarnate. The necessity of discipline on the one hand, and of occupation on the other, induced me one day to enter a saddler's shop, situated in a straight street about half a mile from our house, and buy a whip. Shortly after my return home he committed some act of petty larceny, so I gave him a beating with the whip he had carried home. Going for a walk next day the dog, as usual, accompanied me, and was entrusted with the whip to carry. Directly we got outside the door he started off at his best pace straight down the street, paying no attention whatever, to my repeated calls. He entered the saddler's shop and deposited the whip on the floor. When I arrived the saddler showed me the whip lying exactly where the dog had deposited it."

Henry H. Maxwell.

A RUSÉ DOG.

[March 21, 1885.]

A story which came to my knowledge a few months ago may be of interest in connection with the Spectator's series of anecdotes illustrating the intelligence of animals.

One summer afternoon a group of children were playing at the end of a pier which projects into Lake Ontario, near Kingston, New York, U.S.A. The proverbial careless child of the party made the proverbial backward step off from the pier into the water. None of his companions could save him, and their cries had brought no one from the shore, when, just as he was sinking for the third time, a superb Newfoundland dog rushed down the pier into the water and pulled the boy out. Those of the children who did not accompany the boy home took the dog to a confectioner's on the shore, and fed him with as great a variety of cakes and other sweets as he would eat. So far the story is, of course, only typical of scores of well-known cases. The individuality of this case is left for the sequel.

The next afternoon the same group of children were playing at the same place, when the canine hero of the day before came trotting down to them with the most friendly wags and nods. There being no occasion this time for supplying him with delicacies, the children only stroked and patted him. The dog, however, had not come out of pure sociability. A child in the water and cakes and candy stood to him in the close and obvious relation of cause and effect, and if this relation was not clear to the children he resolved to impress it upon them. Watching his chance, he crept up behind the child who was standing nearest to the edge of the pier, gave a sudden push, which sent him into the water, then sprang in after him, and gravely brought him to shore.

To those of us who have had a high respect for the disinterestedness of dogs, this story may give a melancholy proof that the development of the intelligence, at the expense of the moral nature, is by no means exclusively human.

Clara French.

DOG DECEIVERS.

[Feb. 9, 1895.]

Your fondness for dogs induces me to send you the following anecdote, which shows their power of acting a part for purposes of their own. Some years ago a fox-terrier of mine was condemned by a veterinary surgeon to consume a certain amount of flour of sulphur every day. He was at all times a fanciful and dainty feeder, and every conceivable ingenuity on my part was exhausted in the vain endeavour to disguise the daily portion and to give it a more tempting appearance. Each new device was invariably detected. However hungry he might be he turned from the proffered morsel in disgust, and it ended almost invariably in my having to put it down his throat. One morning, after keeping him for many hours without food, and having neatly wrapped the powder in a most appetising piece of raw meat, I offered it him in the vain hope that hunger might prevail over prejudice. But no. With averted head and downcast look he steadily and determinedly declined to partake of it. I encouraged him in vain. Deep dejection on his part; despair, but persistence, on mine. All of a sudden his whole manner changed. He assumed a brisk and cheerful demeanour, joyfully accepted the hitherto rejected offering, and running merrily through the open door, disappeared swiftly a few yards off round the corner of the building. Inside the room I ran as quickly to a window, whence I could view his proceedings, and there watched him while he deposited the hated morsel on the ground, dug a hole in the flower-bed, and buried it. His jaunty, triumphant air as he returned I shall never forget.

F. E. Wynne.